'Lots of fish and fruit. No one to trouble you. And absolutely no need to work!'
'I would love to visit your island one day, but not now.'
'But why?'
'My family is here. Mother and Munna. How can I leave them?'
'Yes, you are right. I also remember my father and mother a lot.'
'But you must speak to Nokai about me.'
'I will. And if you cannot come with me to Nokai, I will send Nokai to you.'
'What do you mean?'
'Nokai can fly out of his body and go wherever he wants.'
'Ja Hut! Now you are sounding just like Aladdin in the TV serial.'
'Honest, I swear on Puluga. Nokai even taught me the trick, but I haven't tried it yet.'
'The things you say!' Champi laughed and made her way back to the house.
Eketi didn't see her again that day, but she remained in his mind, a joyful presence which lent a spring to his step and made him daydream. At night, he lay down on the stone floor of his shack, took out a lump of red clay, mixed it with pig fat and began making delicate designs with his finger on the wall. If Ashok had seen it, he would have recognized it as a wedding pattern.
Four days later, Ashok Rajput paced up and down the marble floor of his guest room. A heady excitement was building inside him, stemming from the latest piece of gossip he had picked up from the neighbourhood tea stall. Vicky Rai was planning to host a big party on 23 March, just over a week from today. This would be his opportunity, he was convinced. All that was required was to give Eketi some elementary electrical training. Slowly but surely, his plan was taking shape.
The same afternoon, two men barged into Eketi's hut at noon. One was in his forties with ginger hair and a scruffy beard, and the other was younger, with an athletic build and spiky black hair. Dressed in nondescript trousers and shirts, they had identical brown jute bags hanging from their shoulders.
'We have heard that you are from Jharkhand, is it true?' the older man asked Eketi.
'Yes,' he replied, feeling a little scared. 'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand.'
'Hello, Comrade Jiba. My name is Comrade Babuli. This is Comrade Uday.'
Eketi nervously fingered his cap.
'Comrade Jiba,' the older man continued, his eyes scanning the room, 'we are from the Maoist Revolutionary Centre – MRC for short – the most progressive revolutionary group in the country. Have you heard of us?'
'No,' said Eketi.
'How can you be from Jharkhand and not know our group? We are the biggest Naxalite organization in the region. And we are fighting to awaken people like you.'
'But I am already awake!'
'Ha! You call this being awake? Your lives are controlled by the imperialist rich. They employ you and pay you a pittance. They grab your land and rape your women. We will change all that.'
'Yes. We are going to destroy this corrupt and hollow bourgeois society and its institutions and replace them with a completely new structure,' the younger man added. 'We are going to create a new India. And we want you to help us.'
'Help you? How?'
'By participating in our armed revolution.'
'So you have come to offer me a job?'
'Comrade Jiba, we are not a government department. We are not offering you a job. We are offering you a lifestyle. A chance to become a hero.'
'And what will I have to do?'
'Become a revolutionary guerrilla. Participate in our people's war. We shall even give you a gun.'
'I don't like guns.' Eketi shook his head. 'They kill people.'
'Comrade Jiba, try to understand,' said Comrade Babuli impatiently. 'Our struggle is to make your life a better one. Tell me, what is the one thing you want most in life?'
'A wife.'
'A wife?' Comrade Uday glared at Eketi as if he had committed heresy. 'Here we are, trying to promote a revolution, and all you can think about is a bloody wife?'
The elder comrade tried to soothe matters. 'It is all right. Comrade Jiba, we understand your needs. We have plenty of girls in our organization. All young revolutionaries. We will find you a wife. All we want from you at this stage is to consider our offer. We will leave behind some literature for you. Have a look, and then one of our associates will contact you. Comrade Uday?' He gestured to his younger colleague.
Comrade Uday delved into his jute bag and handed Eketi a fat bunch of leaflets.
Eketi felt the paper. It was nice and glossy, like the tourist brochure he had picked up from Varanasi, but this one had gory images of severed heads and men in chains.
'I don't like these photos.' He shuddered. 'They will give me bad dreams.'
Comrade Babuli let out a sigh. 'Is there no one around here who believes in our cause? You are the tenth person who has turned us down today. We thought, being from Jharkhand, at least you would support us.'
Comrade Uday, however, wasn't prepared to concede defeat. 'Look, you black bastard,' he snapped. 'We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. We just killed a hundred policemen in Gumla District. If you don't cooperate with us, we will go to your village and bump off each and every family member that you have. Am I clear?'
Eketi nodded fearfully.
'So think about our offer. We will contact you again in two weeks' time. OK?'
Eketi nodded again.
'Good. And another word of advice.' Comrade Babuli lowered his voice. 'You better not tell anyone of our visit.'
'Otherwise your family . . .' Comrade Uday made a slashing motion across his neck.
'Red salute,' said Comrade Babuli and raised a clenched fist as he stepped out of the shack.
'Lal salam,' said Comrade Uday and made the V sign.
'Kujelli!' said Eketi and closed the door. He decided not to tell anyone about these strange visitors.
He continued to meet Champi every day. They would sit on the bench, Eketi would regale her with funny stories about his island and Champi would laugh as she had never laughed before. Most often, however, they would be quiet, sharing an unspoken communion. Their friendship did not need a vocabulary. It grew in between their silences.
On the evening of 20 March Ashok summoned Eketi to his room. 'I have a plan how to get the sacred rock. Now listen carefully. Three days from now, there is going to be a big party at the farmhouse. That is when you will do the job.'
'What will Eketi have to do?'
'I have got you a nice white shirt and black trousers. You wear these new clothes and enter the farmhouse through the back door at around ten o'clock. For an hour or so you just hang around the wooded area, checking that everything is OK. At precisely eleven thirty you walk down to the garages I showed you.'
'Won't they catch me?'
'I doubt it. There will be so many guests, waiters and cooks at the party, no one is likely to notice you, but if someone asks you, you say you are Mr Sharma's driver.'
'Who is Mr Sharma?'
'Doesn't matter. It is a very common surname and there is bound to be some Mr Sharma at the party. Now on the wall between the two garages is the mains switchboard. You will open it and take out the fuse. The electricity for the house will be cut off and the entire place will be in darkness for at least three to four minutes. That is when you run into the garden, go to the temple, make off with the ingetayi and get out through the back door again. It's that simple. Do you think you will be able to do it?'
'No. Eketi doesn't know anything about fuses.'
'Don't worry. I will teach you how to do it. Come with me,'
Ashok said and led the way to the rear of the temple. On a side wall was the mains switchboard, housed inside a grey metal panel. Ashok opened the panel door and Eketi saw row upon row of gleaming electrical switches.
'This is what you need to do.' Ashok indicated the first fuse. 'Just grip this white thing here and pull it out.'
Eketi touched it cautiously.
'Don't worry, it won't give you a shock. Now just yank it.'
Eketi pulled t
he fuse out and all the lights in the temple were suddenly extinguished.
'There you go.' Ashok grinned. He took the fuse from Eketi's hands and plugged it back in, restoring the electricity.
'Can Eketi try again?' the tribal asked and yanked out the fuse a second time. He clapped as the temple was again plunged into darkness, before plugging the fuse back in.
'This is not a game, idiot,' Ashok reprimanded him.
Back in the welfare officer's room, Eketi voiced another doubt. 'You said I have to take out the fuse at eleven thirty. But how will Eketi know when it is eleven thirty? We don't have watches.'
'But I do,' said Ashok and took out a small manual alarm clock from his suitcase. 'This is already set for eleven thirty. When you hear the alarm ring you will know it is time. Keep it with you.'
The tribal pocketed the alarm clock. 'When Eketi is inside the forest, where will you be? In the farmhouse?'
'Right here, in my room, waiting for you to return with the sea-rock,' said Ashok.
'What? You are sending Eketi all alone to the farmhouse?'
'Yes. It is your sacred rock, your initiation ceremony. On this mission you are entirely on your own. If anyone asks you, you don't know me and I don't know you. Promise me that if something goes wrong and you are caught, you will not give my name.'
'Eketi swears on spirit blood,' the tribal said solemnly. 'But will you also promise to take Eketi back to his island after he gets the ingetayi?'
'Absolutely. I will personally escort you.'
The tribal paused and fingered his jawbone. 'Can Eketi take someone else with him?'
'Someone else? Who?'
'Champi.'
'Oh, that blind cripple?'
'She is not blind. You people are blind.'
'Can't you see that she is the ugliest girl in this city?'
'She is better than all of you put together. Eketi wants to marry her.'
'Oh really? And do you know what they will call you pair? Mr and Mrs Freak!' Ashok said and began laughing. He restrained himself only when Eketi's eyes began glinting with inexplicable warnings. There was something shadowy and nocturnal about the tribal tonight. Ashok decided to humour him. 'Fine. I will get another ticket for her. Now go and sleep. March 23 is just three days away. And you have work to do.'
The night had a magical, almost dreamlike quality. Eketi lay on the floor, thinking of Champi and his island. He considered the possibility of becoming a torale on his return to Gaubolambe. Everything depended on whether Nokai had a cure for Champi's blindness. If the medicine man did not, he would have to find one himself.
All of a sudden he heard scrunching footsteps and became instantly alert. A little while later indistinct raised voices started coming from the neighbouring house. Something seemed to be happening inside Champi's shack.
And then he heard a piercing scream. He knew instantly it was Champi. Like a maddened elephant, he bounded out of the shack and crashed through the rear door of the neighbouring house. The room looked as if it had been lashed by a storm. The mattress had been upturned. He saw Champi's brother Munna sprawled on the floor and Champi's mother lying senseless in one corner. Champi, wearing a green salwar kameez, was flailing against a short man dressed in a shimmering cream shirt while a tall, wiry man wearing black trousers watched.
With a terrible roar he launched himself at Champi's tormentor, grabbed him by the neck and lifted him several feet into the air. He began squeezing the man's neck till his eyeballs started to bulge out of their sockets. The tall man flicked open a Rampuri knife and drew patterns in the air. Eketi flung the short man on to the wooden table, which splintered from the impact, and advanced towards the taller one as though the knife in his hand was a blunt piece of wood. The tall man slashed viciously and a thin line of blood stained the tribal's vest. Yet he continued to advance, unmindful of his injury, his lips curled in a feral snarl. He plucked the knife from the tall man's grasp and opened his mouth wide to reveal his perfect white teeth, which he then sank into the man's left shoulder. It was now the tall man's turn to scream in agony. Meanwhile, gasping and wheezing, the short one got to his feet. He rammed his head into Eketi's back, causing the tribal to lose balance momentarily. But instead of exploiting that little opening, the two men bolted from the hut before Eketi could scramble back to his feet.
Champi was still cowering when Eketi lifted her in his arms and took her out of the shack into the cool night. He sat down on the bench beneath the gulmohar tree and made little comforting sounds as Champi clung to him, shaking like a leaf.
'Take me away, Eketi, take me from this place. I want to come with you. I want to marry you. I don't want to stay here any longer,' she sobbed.
'Shhh . . . don't speak.'
'I don't care if Nokai cures my blindness or not. I want to live with you on your island. For ever.'
'I will take you. In two days' time. Till then, wear this.' He untied the black string from his neck containing the jawbone, and fastened it around Champi's neck. 'From now on, Puluga will protect you from any harm.'
'And what about you?'
'Don't worry about me. The ingetayi will protect me. I am going to get it soon.'
'From where?'
'A farmhouse belonging to someone called Vicky Rai.'
13
The Cinderella Project
8 August
I have sent Bhola to Patna to fetch Ram Dulari – my lookalike – and I just can't wait to see her.
9 August
Rosie Mascarenhas announced the news today that Celebrity House, a clone of Big Brother, has asked me to participate in their next reality show, starting in six months' time. She was insistent that I accept. 'You saw how Shilpa Shetty's career got a new lease of life after she won Big Brother. Now she has tea with the Queen of England, meets Prime Ministers and gets Honorary Doctorates. There is even talk of a biopic being made about her.'
'But my career doesn't need a boost,' I said.
'Still, the extra spotlight can do us no harm. Every actress in Bollywood is dying to get on to Celebrity House. They are offering it to you on a platter. The script looks pretty good. They want you to have a big cat-fight with another contestant and then walk off in a huff. You'll be out of the house within a week, but the publicity will last for months.'
'But isn't this supposed to be reality TV?' I asked.
'It is,' my publicist said sheepishly. 'But no one will know.'
'Is life not a thousand times too short for us to bore ourselves?' I said and instructed her to turn down the offer.
Reality TV was touted as the great new hope for the digital era. A new genre featuring real people in real situations, laughing real laughs and shedding real tears. But it has fallen prey to the easy temptation of pre-packaged programming, degenerating into a scripted charade controlled by off-screen handlers in which contestants shed fake tears and throw sham tantrums to wring a few drops of interest from the blasé viewers. And why blame the viewers? All entertainment nowadays is prefabricated. Even war. No wonder death has also lost its capacity to move us.
That is why I am waiting for Ram Dulari with bated breath. In a universe in which everything is rigged and predictable, she alone might hold the power to surprise me.
10 August
Ram Dulari arrived today from Patna.
Bhola, who escorted her by train, appeared to be in a daze. He said he had to pinch himself to make sure that he was not with me. Even the watchman downstairs saluted Ram Dulari, mistaking her for me returning from a film shoot.
The resemblance is indeed unsettling. She is slim, a bit less heavy on the hips and exactly the same height as me: five foot four. It felt as if I was staring at myself in the mirror.
I have done only one film in which I had a double role, playing identical twins, but standing in front of Ram Dulari I wondered whether art imitated life or life imitated art. Here we were, Seeta and Geeta, Anju and Manju, Ram and Shyam, together in a single frame. I could hit my identical twin, pu
ll her hair, hold her hand or paint her lips without recourse to special effects.
The poor girl was shaking, whether from exhaustion or fear I didn't know. She had come wearing a ragged green sari – probably the same one in which she had got herself photographed, and her only possession was a battered tan suitcase which would, no doubt, contain similar rags. So I led her to the small empty bedroom next to mine, gave her a couple of my old saris, and told her she would be staying with me. Her eyes grew wide on seeing the opulence of the room and she fell at my feet, sobbing in gratitude.
In the evening she came into my bedroom unannounced, sat down on the carpet and started massaging my legs. I told her this was not necessary, but she was insistent. She rubbed my feet for a full hour and eventually had to be forced to stop, whereupon she started mopping the tiles in my bathroom.
A little while later, when I took dinner to her room I found her sleeping on the floor, curled up in a foetal position. Seeing the childlike innocence of her posture, a strange, indefinable emotion welled up in me, a mixture of tenderness and pity. I sat down beside her on the carpet and gently stroked her hair, transported to the dusty by-lanes of Azamgarh and the dreamy innocence of my own childhood.
I wonder, though, what will I do with her.
12 August
I was still wondering what to do with Ram Dulari when the issue resolved itself. Shanti Bai, my Maharashtrian Brahmin cook for the last three years, has fallen pregnant and suddenly left the job. Ram Dulari has eased into the position immediately. She made me some kadhi and sooji ka halwa for lunch. I tasted these long-forgotten dishes with relish. Not only was the food yummy, it brought to mind Ma's cooking, the true taste of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.
Like me, Ram Dulari is a vegetarian. Looks like finding her has been one of my luckiest breaks.
24 August
It's been a fortnight since Ram Dulari came to my flat and she has charmed me completely. It is hard to believe that people like her still exist in the world. Not only is she a great cook, she is also a very hard-working, devoted, honest person who believes in the old-fashioned values of duty and fealty. But her utter naivety and blind trust in everyone are also troubling. This city will gobble her up.